Small Windows
by historicallylate
Summary: Missing the chance to say a thing simply creates a lot of trouble in the long run as Andy is finding out. One shot. (Post-season 3A, slight AU.)


**A/N:** _Okay, so, remember two days ago when I said 'no more stories'? Yeah, me neither. I'm posting this wholly selfishly: I'd like some comments because I'm stuck in a cycle of writing and rewriting and falling back on old (bad) habits. _

_Scene 1 of chapter 1, my Romance Suspense warm-up, but this can be read as is. I'm trying to get the atmosphere pressing: unhurried bordering on stagnant, dark, haunting. I'm not sure it's working, instead I think the read is sticky and difficult. Thus this (very short) snippet._

_Is it working? Opinions? Suggestions? (TIA & thanks for reading even if you don't review!)_

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><p><strong>Small Windows<strong>

Tonight, Andy Flynn feels brave.

Usually there is no problem, but with her, he rarely is. She is never skittish, never anything less than assured and confident around him. Still something always makes him take a step back. Last week he backed off because a true smile and a whispered thank you. Yesterday that something was a single word, 'sensitivity'. All it took for him to stop speaking his mind like he had planned was her praising him for his sensitivity.

He is not sensitive, and he doesn't think she really thinks that either.

Parking the car, letting the engine's purrs die in the stale air of the lot, he loses the comforting backdrop reason for his silence. There has been ample time to assess his words, her mood, and every other variable in his plan and he knows he should go through with it as soon as he can. Already should have. He has missed plenty of moments already.

Here and now is another chance to come clean, if only she doesn't throw him off. Again.

He spends a moment to stare out at the darkened lot through the smudges of the long ago cleaned windshield. The words he had thought over before suddenly go into a merry jumble of masked characters. Gripping the wheel for fortification he tells himself not to yield to his demons calling him to back off.

He hears her shuffling in her seat, wondering how she always finds so many things to faff about. Usually it doesn't matter; usually he springs up hastily to open the door for her and doesn't mind the extra moment to watch her. Today he is grateful of this particular quirk.

"Sharon, before you go... Do you have a minute?"

He doesn't look at her but suspects she smiles at him. It is something in the sound of her soft breaths that translates into a smile in his brain. She does smile a lot, at everything he does or says, unless she is displeased or taken completely by surprise.

What he has to say, might wipe the smile off.

"There's something I've wanted to go over with you," he starts, "but there never seems to be a right time."

"Oh." That is all it takes to wipe the smile: the earnestness he uses to deliver the opening stops her mid-movement. "Is it serious? Something at work? Not surely something with your family?"

"No, not anything like that." He offers her a tired smile, hoping she trust him. "Don't worry."

She does worry. About him, his family, hers, even about work. Still she is not a worrier exactly; she is a carer, she cares.

It is this insight into her that makes him brave.

"It's something else, really."

"Okay."

That one word of hers concisely conveys both 'go ahead, I'm listening' and 'I have no idea where this is going but I trust you'. Maybe even some of 'you better not waste my time'. Now that he has started to understand it, he loved the economy of her communication.

"Nothing serious, so... Well —"

His hesitation makes her turn to him, the best she can in her seat. He doesn't get to finishing his sentence, so she needs to prompt him.

"Andy, what if you just told me?"

"Yeah. I guess. The thing is —"

Before his words go anywhere, her phone buzzes. Without looking she fumbles her purse for it and clicks it mute.

The surprise, and the thought he should ask if that was just mute or indeed decline, makes him start again, "Well, the thing is..."

The vibrating of her phone cuts him short; again she clicks the thing off.

"I know we —"

This time his own phone stops his words. Unlike her, he glances at it. He doesn't have to see the message to know his chance for talking is over.

"Work."

She nods, smooths the cuff of her trench, waits for him to say what it is on his mind. Instead, he answers the call and while he talks with muted tones, her phone vibrates with a text message.

The warmth of the phone against his ear is the only thing blocking him safely from the lure of her. It still won't stop him reacting to the ragged breath she exhales into the cream upholstering of his beaten car's roof. Instantly he knows she had received the same, unwelcome news.

Ending the call with a disheartened promise to be there as soon as he can, after a sigh and running fingers through his hair, his focus immediately drifts to her sleety eyes. Gone is the earthy warmth he has enjoyed throughout the evening. She is tired, broken with the case that refuses to move forward.

Still, unnecessarily, he says, "We caught another body."

"I know."

All thoughts of bravery and taking chances forgotten, he goes for practicality.

"You should get home and change."

She ignores him, the thumb stroking against the sleekness of her dress's hem against her thigh the only clue that she is listening to him. There she is, waiting for him. She is in no hurry, even with their responsibilities pressing.

Andy takes the initiative, exits the car and rounds it to open the door for her. The echo of his rubber soles against concrete is louder than usually, the clang of the passenger door's handle rings like an end-of-play gong. His nervousness shuts down the reserves needed for better similes.

Or maybe it is her eyes, already looking up at him through the window the moment he takes his place behind her door. At the appearance of the first crack, he watches her gather the stuffy air in deep inhale, ragged, like a whale shifting through the pressurized water for microscopic prey. It does not help with thinking, but she clearly hopes.

"Can you say it quick," she appeals when he stands in wait holding the door like a lackey for the lady to step out, "whatever it was?"

There is an argument for blurting it out right now, in the hopes of lessening the disappointment they both feel for the disruption work brings to their lives once again. However, the gruesome possibility of admissions making what they need to do in a matter of minutes, hours, even more gruelling argues against any such admissions.

"No, no, it will keep. No hurry."

He feels brave, but is yet to be, when it comes to her.

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><p><strong>AN2:** _All hail Sally Martin who generously helped me to hatch ideas for this! This was rewrite number 16, so no blame on her for my mistakes.  
><em>

_Re: Guest: Update what? :D This is a one shot, "Lies" I finished last Monday(?). _


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